


Act Three, Scene Five

by SmilinStar



Category: The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-21 03:05:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3675057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmilinStar/pseuds/SmilinStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“But you? Oh you.” He runs the rest of his fingers through her hair, and reaches up to caress her cheek with the thumb of his other hand, “What you wouldn't give to be in my shoes.” A post 6x17 fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rising Action

**Author's Note:**

> What's this? A multi-chapter fic? Really? I don't even know to be honest. Part one is based off of speculation and clips from the promo for 6x18, but after that it veers off in a different direction.

 

\-----

 

 

His lips are hot and insistent trailing down the side of her neck.

 

And in that moment the tiny part of her mind that screams to be heard, the artfully buried voice of reason, of right and wrong, is finally silenced completely.

 

She just doesn't care.

 

Because this? This is exactly what she wants.

 

His lips trail lower, his fingers skimming the surface of her skin, teasing the underside of her breast, before he places a kiss on the centre of her chest.

 

He stops then and she hates the little groan of objection that leaves her lips.

 

He lifts his head, props his chin on that same spot, and raises his eyebrows. The grin on his face is a little too smug for her liking.

 

She knows what it is that he's waiting for and if he thinks she's going to be the first one to relent, he has another thing coming.

 

Her eyes most likely give away her steel, and it only seems to amuse him further.

 

Pushing up on to his arms, he slides up along the length of her so that his face is level with hers. She doesn't bother with trying to suppress the shiver, and watches in fascination as his eyes drop to her lips.

 

“Oh Caroline,” he says, voice low and smooth, the words wrapping around her, binding her in place.

 

He entwines their fingers, and lifts both hands above her head, holding them there and she can do nothing but let him, “Always needing to be in control.”

 

And if this had been Stefan, _her Stefan,_ that sentence wouldn't have ended there.

 

But he's not, and so it ends with bruising lips against hers and a thorough dismantling of any and all remnants of control she has left.

 

And by the end of it, she doesn't care enough to even remember.

 

_(That's one of the things I love about you.)_

\-----

 

He'd forgotten just how much fun this is.

 

They've got the bar to themselves. The owner having very kindly offered up an endless supply of free drinks all around. Oh, and not just of the alcoholic kind.

 

Although he's not sure how much longer that's going to last.

 

He's looking rather pale and a little unsteady on the feet, and he may have been a little overzealous the last time he fed since the neck wound is still bleeding quite freely.

 

What a waste.

 

What a shame.

 

He throws the knife up again in the air, letting it spin before dropping back down into his waiting hand.

 

He supposes he could put him out of his misery.

 

He spins the knife again

 

But where's the fun in that?

 

He doesn't so much as flinch when he catches the knife, blade to palm.

 

“The things I do for human kind,” he sighs, before letting the blood drip from his cut into an empty shot glass and sliding it along the counter.

 

“Drink up,” he orders, not even sparing him a glance as his attention is stolen away by Caroline up on stage.

 

“Look what I've found,” she says, one hand on her hip, the other spinning what looks like a microphone, the cord winding it's way around her wrist.

 

“Karaoke!” she grins.

 

He groans, “No.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“No.”

 

She pouts, “Yes.”

 

“Fine.”

 

She grins down at him in victory, and he kind of can't help himself. Lit up by sunlight peaking through the blinds behind her, dressed in white, blonde tresses wild around her shoulders as she twists and turns and sways along to the beginnings of a song he doesn't recognise, he finds himself smiling, and thinking fun.

 

This is fun.

 

 

\-----

 

 

His eyes don't leave her at all.

 

It's all heat and want, and she doesn't think she's felt more alive than she does right now.

 

She loses herself to the music, eyes closed, hips swaying, singing her unbeating heart out.

 

She's so wrapped up in it, she doesn't even notice.

 

One minute she's on stage, and the next she's being pushed back into the counter of the bar, Stefan pressing heavily into her, head buried in her neck, and a hand tangled in her hair.

 

“Stefan,” she admonishes, “I haven't finished my song.”

 

He answers her by grazing his teeth against the skin of the side of her neck, and sliding the thin strap of her dress down her shoulder with his free hand.

 

She tilts her head back and sighs, “Stefan,” she says again.

 

And this time he lifts his head, eyes dark and hungry and she can only swallow in response.

 

He lets his hands skim her sides, drop down to her waist before lifting her to sit on the edge of the counter, her legs wrapping around him instinctively.

 

“I pictured you singing a different song altogether.”

 

“Oh really?” she asks, and she knows exactly what he means given the turn of his lips and the look in his eyes, but sadly the sound of footsteps and someone foolishly cocking a gun interrupts their little interlude, and she finds herself asking again, “Really?” though it sounds nothing like it did the first time. “Seriously? How stupid can you get?”

 

She nudges Stefan aside, but doesn't have to do much because he's already turning around, irritation clear on his face as she drops back down to the ground beside him.

 

“Matt and-”

 

He doesn't finish, as Tyler unloads a dart into his chest and he stumbles back. Vervain.

 

Her eyes flash red and before Matt can unload a clip of wooden bullets into her, she's blurring forwards and knocking the gun out of his hands and knocking him out with an impressive backhand.

 

Stefan's got a handle of Tyler, having managed to pull out the needle before he'd got the full dose of it and been hit with another dart, he's turned the tables on her ex-werewolf, ex-boyfriend, and has him pinned on the wrong end of his knife.

 

“Stefan . . .” she calls out as she watches him press the tip of the blade against his carotid artery. Tyler's eyes are wide and fearful, and it only amuses her that they thought they could take them on and win. It's kind of cute. And stupid.

 

“Stefan,” she calls again, “That can wait, I'd like to hear what they have to say for themselves first. Once Matt wakes up of course, I kind of hit him a lot harder than I'd meant to.”

 

“Fine,” Stefan says, head dropping before stepping away, twirling the knife between his fingers. “You. Stay there. Don't go getting any more genius ideas.”

 

Tyler manages to push himself into a sitting position, and the searching “Care?” that falls from his lips is pitiful.

 

She giggles, “You know I really hate that nickname. Doesn't suit me at all, wouldn't you say?”

 

Stefan moves to stand around her, kisses her bare shoulder and then perches his chin there to look down at Tyler, self-satisfied smirk firmly on his lips. “No, it really doesn't.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

“Heads I kill Tyler, tails I kill Matt.”

 

He sits at the table watching as she faces Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum, coin sitting in the centre of her palm.

 

And while it's a nice idea, and an interesting way to spend the time, the fun will be over too quickly and they'll just end up killing the lucky one standing anyway.

 

And so he pockets his knife and stands up, “I have a better idea.”

 

“Oh?” she asks, eyebrows raised.

 

“Why don't we get our friend here,” he grabs hold of Tyler's shoulder and ignores the hatred spewing from his eyes, “to kill our buddy Matt for us?”

 

“Why?”

 

“Oh you know latent werewolf curse and all, and it's more fun getting people to do what they don't want to.”

 

“Good point,” Caroline concedes, stepping away and hopping up on to the bar, legs dangling to and fro, “Ahh, but I'm pretty sure they're all vervained up, because even they're not that stupid.”

 

“We're not doing what you want,” Matt spits out, defiance across his face, and it's kind of hot, she thinks in a detached manner.

 

Stefan chuckles, and she feels it like a shudder down her spine.

 

“We'll see.”

 

 _“_ _See what?”_

 

He recognises the second and entirely unwelcome interruption for the day instantly, but it's Caroline's confused and intrigued response of “Who's that?” that catches his attention. 

 

There's a large part of him, a deep dark pit in his stomach that tells him to not turn around, to just grab Caroline and run out of there, count their losses and find another bar to ransack and bleed dry. Something tells him that turning around will be a mistake. A big mistake.

 

“Stefan?” Another voice calls out, and it's one he barely recognises. It strikes a chord somewhere in the recesses of his mind, stirs something in the cage that sits in his chest, and he knows it couldn't possibly be his heart, because that is most definitely switched off along with his humanity.

 

 _Is it really?_ A snide voice asks as flashes of laughter and sweet smiles framed by golden hair tease him.

 

He knows that voice, but just as well as he knows it, he knows it's not possible.

 

He turns and hates himself even more for it.

 

The world shifts and everything blurs, colours seep and his voice doesn't belong to him when he finally answers her question, “That's my mother.”

 

Long dead Lily Salvatore.

 

Alive and undead, and in the flesh.

 

“Hello Stefan.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

If anyone were to ask her later, much much later, she'd probably say it had been then.

 

The beginning of the end.

 

When it had all started to unravel around her.

 

Stefan's words echo in her head, and it takes her a few seconds too many to piece them together.

 

Ridiculous. It's ridiculous because she could have sworn he'd said that that woman was his mother.

 

She laughs, because what else is there to do?

 

“Ha!” she says, “Nice one.”

 

Damon tilts his head to the side, hand coming up to rest on the woman's shoulder, “No joke, Blondie. Now don't be rude and come say hi to your boyfriend's mother.”

 

She shakes her head, the smile frozen on her face as she looks across at Stefan.

 

And she sees it then, the hard swallow, the tense jaw, the clenched fists.

 

“Stefan?” she asks, but he doesn't seem to be listening. He's just staring ahead, eyes glazed and unfocussed.

 

The woman in question slips out from under Damon's grasp and takes a few tentative steps towards him, and all she can do is stand and watch the scene unfold in front of her.

 

“Stefan,” she says again, and there's the faintest of trembles in her hand as she stops in front of him, hand reaching out to cup his cheek, “My little boy.”

 

Stefan's eyes slip closed and she can see the struggle, and she doesn't know why, doesn't understand it at all, but there's a part of her fighting through the barriers, battling hope that he snaps, that he lets go and lets it in.

 

Because it's his mother.

 

She's alive.

 

And he has his mother.

 

He has her.

 

She's alive, and not _dead._

And she feels herself fading, losing the battle and she _can't._

_Not yet._

_She's not ready._

“My mother died of consumption,” Stefan says after an eternity and it's like an ice cold bucket of water, and literally everyone in the room recoils with the words, and his face is shut down and tied up tighter than ever before as he lifts her hand away from him and steps away.

 

He walks out then. Right past Damon and Elena, forgets all about Matt and Tyler, and her.

 

Forgets all about her.

 

Except, she's not going to let him run away from this.

 

No.

 

And so she follows after, and that should have been her first clue.

 

 

\-----

 

 

He's reeling.

 

Shock gives way to anger and despite his dogged mantra of humanity-less vampires being able to shut off all their feelings and be entirely emotionless, and being able to bask in the glory of freedom it allows, he realises it's all bullshit.

 

He shouldn't care.

 

Without his humanity, he shouldn't care.

 

He shouldn't care that he's so angry he could literally walk into the very next building he comes across, and rip every single person's head off and gorge on their blood until he's drowning in it.

 

But he does.

 

He does care that he's this angry. That some woman claiming to be his mother could evoke such a reaction in him. Not when it shouldn't even be a blip on his emotional radar.

 

“Stefan?”

 

Caroline.

 

Of course she followed after him.

 

He doesn't turn around as she chases after, footsteps gaining. She reaches him just as he approaches his car, and the gentle touch of her hand on his shoulder together with the soft “Hey,” that leaves her lips is enough for him to snap.

 

He turns on her, eyes blood red, veins rising up and along his cheeks, fangs protruding through gums, “I would turn around and leave if I were you.”

 

The threat is clear, and if it hadn't been, the look on his face should be explanation enough.

 

But Caroline has finally seen him at his worst, revelled in it with him for weeks, and somehow it really shouldn't surprise him that she's not spooked in the least.

 

She takes a step closer, hand on her hip as she stares him down, “So what? You're running away?”

 

“No,” he says, denial a knee jerk reaction, “I'm bored, had enough of bar hopping, think I'm gonna try my hand at the shopping mall. Bigger, tougher, but ultimately more satisfying.”

 

“Sure,” she drawls, and he really hates the way she seems to see straight through him, “Nothing to do with your mom showing up from the dead then?”

 

He grits his teeth, before twisting his lips into an ugly smile, “I've got to hand that to Damon, cool trick and nice try, but no cigar.”

 

“So you're really not bothered?”

 

“No why would I be?”

 

And there it is. She's the first to blink and he sees it.

 

This time he takes the step closer, forces her to look up at him, “And why do you care?”

 

“I don't,” she's quick to deny.

 

_(Deep down, you and I are exactly the same, Caroline.)_

The smile on his face doesn't drop, it only contorts further as he figures it out, “It must hurt, right?”

 

She doesn't answer as her face remains impressively disinterested, and he wonders just how hard those muscles in her pretty face are having to work right now to keep it up.

 

“It must hurt,” he continues on, reaching out to pull on a curl of hair, “That I have a mother who's supposed to be dead, but is somehow miraculously alive, and I really couldn't give a damn. But you? Oh you.” He runs the rest of his fingers through her hair, and reaches up to caress her cheek with the thumb of his other hand, “What you wouldn't give to be in my shoes.”

 

She swallows, “You're wrong, I really don't care.”

 

“Sure you do,” he smiles, bringing his face in closer to hers and whispering, a hairbreadth away from her lips, “You're a terrible liar. Getting better granted, but terrible nevertheless.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Make me.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

_Make me._

Now there's an invitation, clear as day and she isn't one to back away at the first sign of a fight. It doesn't take much to close the distance and press her lips to his. She shoves him hard into the side of his red Porsche, and vaguely remembers a conversation from a long time ago about sports cars being terrible for making out in, but her thoughts are chased away by Stefan's tongue in her mouth and his wandering hands.

 

He spins them around so that she's the one now backed up against the warm metal and he's hard and heavy, and his kisses punishing, and she almost can't breathe.

 

She knows.

 

She knows what he's doing and she knows she should be angry at how easy he toys with her, how easy she falls prey to his manipulations, but it always comes down to her not caring.

 

She didn't care when he shoved that girl in her face, pretty neck on display.

 

No, because, she wanted him.

 

And now? She doesn't care that he's pushing her buttons, forcing her to feel.

 

No, because, she wants to.

 

No, because, she realises something now. She's stronger than him.

 

And _he_ needs _her._

It hits her just before she lets go, and pushes back.

 

Her hands abandon the heat of his back and reach up between them to cup his face, thumbs gentle against the arch of his cheekbones. She pushes back against his lips, meeting the force of his kisses with the gentlest of brushes and knows when he notices the shift. She can feel it in the tension of his jaw, the eyebrows furrowing, the confusion of how it's all changed.

 

And finally she lets the tears fall, slide down her skin and onto his.

 

She thinks it funny how she can finally breathe.

 

Ironic, that not being able to breathe was what made her switch it all off in the first place.

 

And here she is.

 

And here they are.

 

 

\-----

 

 

He opens his eyes to find wet blue eyes staring back at him.

 

Crystal clear, blue.

 

Beautifully blue.

 

Beautifully _her_.

 

“Hi,” she smiles through the tears.

 

He breathes.

 

“Hi.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

“So . . .” Bonnie starts, staring at the back of her head, as she swipes the feather duster back and forth over the same spot for the fifth time, “Are you ever going to talk about this?”

 

She stops, turns, and raises her brow at her friend, “I'll talk, when you talk.”

 

Bonnie nods, “Fair enough,” before throwing her the wood polish.

 

 

\-----

 

 

“So how long were you planning on avoiding her?”

 

“Who?”

 

“Exactly my point, brother. Exactly my point.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

It's been just over a week since she switched it all back on and a week since she's been trying to get her life back in order, back on track.

 

And getting back to classes had seemed like a good enough place to start.

 

But listening to her lecturer drone on, only adds to her painful reality, not that she'd expected it to be anything less.

 

There's something to be said for burying the pain of the immediate aftermath in the haze of her weeks' worth of humanity-less spiralling.

 

Elena had been wrong.

 

It hadn't been the worst mistake she'd ever made.

 

And she didn't regret it.

 

At least not the decision to switch it off in the first place.

 

But the decision to force Stefan's hand?

 

That she does.

 

Because, however anyone may try and justify it, switching it off doesn't somehow rob a vampire of their ability to make decisions, it doesn't mean they lack all control. No, it just means they _don't care._

And now that it's back on, she cares. She cares so much the guilt claws at her and she's left with restless nights of not being able to sleep, and having to force blood down her throat because it just doesn't taste right any more, to show for it.

 

The guilt is overwhelming and it only takes on one form.

 

She hasn't seen him since that day it all came flooding back.

 

Never really got any further than looking into each other's eyes and feeling that first tidal wave of emotion. Relief, it had been relief, and that hadn't been what she'd been expecting. At all.

 

But then Damon had come running after them, shattering the moment of peace, and _everything_ else had followed, swallowing up the relief and spitting it out to leave nothing but pain and guilt and shame.

 

But it needs to stop.

 

It's been long enough.

 

She needs to stop hiding.

 

She needs to stop running away.

 

She needs to face him

 

She needs to apologise.

 

And she needs to do it now.

 

She ignores Elena's look of puzzlement as she slides out of her chair and calmly walks down the stairs of the lecture theatre.

 

And she certainly pays no mind to the lecturer's indignant remarks as she walks out the door.

 

That, she really could care less about.

 

 

\-----

 

 

He almost wants to switch it back off.

 

He doesn't know how to deal with this, and he really doesn't want to.

 

His mother is alive.

 

And she's a vampire.

 

And not just any kind of vampire, a ripper.

 

Damon's remarks of “Well see, now it all makes sense, and it really isn't your fault Stefan. Genetics, what can you do?” are really not helpful at all.

 

It doesn't absolve him of anything.

 

Damon's attempts at mediation are a spectacular failure. He sits them all down in the living room, shifts his eyes back and forth between them, before spraying his arms out wide and saying, “Well? Talk.”

 

As if it's so easy.

 

He can feel his mother's eyes on him but can't bring himself to meet them with his own.

 

Damon claps his hands together, “You know what, maybe you two don't need an audience, so maybe I'll leave you to it.” He gives him a pointed glare before walking out and he fakes ignorance at knowing just what the hell he meant with that look.

 

She's the first to break, and it doesn't surprise him, “It's good to see you.”

 

He nods, “Yeah.”

 

“Everything is so different here and now, it's taking me some time to get accustomed to it.”

 

He says nothing.

 

“I mean, computers, goodness!” she laughs, and its harsh against his eardrums, “I cannot comprehend it at all. Despite Damon's explanations, I find myself thinking that it must be some sort of witchcraft!”

 

Small talk.

 

He's not sure he has the patience for small talk.

 

And she's perceptive enough to realise it.

 

“I'm sorry,” she says.

 

“It's okay,” he says roughly.

 

“No,” she says, again, “I'm sorry.”

 

And that's it, he thinks, he can't do this.

 

He just can't.

 

And he tells her as much, before getting up and leaving.

 

And there's just the one thought in his head.

 

_Caroline._

 

He needs to talk to Caroline.

 

 

\-----

 

 

She feels silly standing outside his door, working up the courage to knock.

 

She never used to knock.

 

Used to waltz right in as if she's always welcome.

 

So she figures, why not? It's a start, right? And one of them has to make the first move, and she already knows Stefan's speciality is running away from things that scare him. She just has to be brave enough for the both of them.

 

And so she takes a deep breath, pushes the door ajar and slips in.

 

“Stefan?” she calls out to no answer.

 

She calls again as she walks into the living room, and is caught a little off guard when she comes face to face with Mrs Salvatore's steely gaze.

 

“Oh hello!” she laughs nervously, “Mrs Salvatore, sorry I didn't expect to see you.”

 

“Clearly.”

 

“Oh, I'm Caroline. Caroline Forbes,” she continues on, stretching out her hand in greeting, “I don't think we've officially met.”

 

She doesn't shake her hand, “I know who you are.”

 

“Oh,” she says, retracting her hand, and feeling lost, “I was just looking for-”

 

“My son. He's not here.”

 

“Oh ok, well, I'll just come back later.”

 

“Or maybe not.”

 

She's a little surprised at the tone, but given the cold reception earlier it's not entirely unexpected, “Sorry?”

 

“I know who you are. Damon told me everything.”

 

She lets that sit for a second, and thinks she understands. She'd let it upset her if only it didn't feed her anger. Because, really? Who the hell was she to judge?

 

But still, she tries for civility, “I'm sorry, I think we've got off on the wrong foot-”

 

“No,” Mrs Salvatore cuts her off, “No we have not. You did after all force my son to switch off his humanity and embrace his darkness, did you not?”

 

The older woman walks around the living room, back straight, head held up high as she stops in front of her and the hairs on the back of her neck are standing and she barely manages to suppress the shiver that runs through her.

 

For all the polite words, spoken in a soft and pleasant tone, there is just something so unsettling about this woman, and it has her every fibre on edge.

 

“Miss Forbes, I think you would be well advised to stay away from Stefan. I think it would be for both your benefits.”

 

She bristles with the threat, and she knows she shouldn't but she can't help herself.

 

“Your son can make his own choices.”

 

“Yes, you're quite right, he can. But then there's making the right choice and making the wrong one. And you, my dear, are the wrong one. Trust me, I know a little something about wrong choices and how easy it is to fall prey to the lure of darkness. And you, Miss Caroline Forbes, are that darkness, which is why I know that you will turn around once this conversation is done and walk away.”

 

“And how can you be so sure of that?”

 

“Simple. Because you love him.”

 

She's not sure what else there is to say to that. She feels like she's been blind-sided completely, and whatever hope she had had, has been pulverised to ash beneath her feet, because the weight of the words sink in and she can't escape them.

 

Whatever anger had been fuelling her fire is fading fast, the part of her screaming inside her that she's _wrong, she's wrong,_ is being drowned out by age old insecurities of never being good enough. Never being the one, and why should this be any different now?

 

There's the faintest echo of words she heard a long time ago, but it disappears like wisps of clouds floating off and it's nothing real that she can quite grasp.

 

A bright light in a sea of dark, that dims to nothing, and just like that, it's gone.

 

Damon chooses that moment to interrupt, his expression clearly one of confusion mixed with a hint of suspicion, “Mother? Caroline? Everything okay in here?”

 

“Oh fine, Damon,” Mrs Salvatore answers for her, “Miss Forbes just popped by to say hello. She was just leaving.”

 

“She was? But Stefan's-”

 

“It's fine Damon. She's right. I was just leaving.”

 

She doesn't spare either of them a glance as she walks out.

 

Thinks its fair enough since they get to keep the broken shards of her heart and grind them to dust under their feet.

 

 

\-----

 

 

_Hi Caroline. It's me, Stefan. Leaving yet another message, which you probably won't listen to . . .I guess it serves me right, huh? Taste of my own medicine? Listen, I just . . . want to talk. We need to talk. We used to be able to do that right? Before all this? We could always talk. So please. Please call me._

 

 

\-----

 

 

She deletes the message without even listening to it, and ignores the little voice inside her head.

 

Coward, it says.

 

Hypocrite, it adds.

 

She throws the phone on her desk, and walks away.

 

 

\-----

 

 

“Wow, you know I don't think I've ever seen you so nervous.”

 

“Shut up,” Damon snaps back, fixing his tie, yet again.

 

“You do have the rings, right?” Stefan can't help himself. It's in the younger brother's handbook of how to annoy their siblings, and he's the master of it.

 

But for all his jokes about Damon being nervous, he knows he's only projecting.

 

Because today, on this beautifully warm, sunny, picture perfect day for an outdoor wedding, he is finally going to see Caroline.

 

Finally get the answers to all the questions that have kept him up for countless nights.

 

Hope.

 

There's also hope humming just below the surface of his skin and it's a wonder he manages to sit still as Alaric and Damon take their places at the altar.

 

When the wedding march starts up and everyone is upstanding, waiting for the bride to make her appearance, his gaze unashamedly swims against the tide and he can't help but stare.

 

She's dressed in a brilliant blue printed dress, hair soft and bright in the sunlight and the smile on her face stunning.

 

She must feel the weight of his gaze, because her cheeks stain with a blush and yet she refuses to turn. Her eyes instead follow along with every other guest as the bride makes her appearance, heavily pregnant, beaming smile, and beautiful in white.

 

As she walks down the carpeted aisle under the canopy, Caroline's eyes turn with her and it's the tiniest fraction of a second, but she sees him, catches his eyes before falling away.

 

But what he sees.

 

It's enough.

 

 

\----

 

 

The ceremony is beautiful.

 

The happy couple stunning, in love and so so happy, and she thinks it's about time they had something to celebrate.

 

Damon's best man speech is suitably funny and surprisingly sweet, but Damon wouldn't be Damon without throwing in a few 'nudge nudge, wink wink' moments and she's grateful that none of the non-supernatural or initiated guests in attendance cotton on. Still, she has to hand it to him, as much as it pains her, he does a good job of the speech and he seems to have a growing knack for them.

 

She's sitting at a table with Bonnie and Matt (who unsurprisingly has found a way to forgive her, because that's just the kind of guy he is, although from what Elena's told her, Stefan's another story altogether and apparently still has a long way to go yet), and they do a pretty decent job of providing a distraction.

 

But as much as she loves a good wedding, the unease roiling around in the pit of her stomach shows no signs of letting up because someone's eyes haven't left her all day and as good a buffer as Bonnie and Matt have been for her, she knows she can't run away from him forever.

 

Bonnie's hand settles over the top of hers, and its enough to snap her out of her thoughts.

 

“You okay?”

 

Looking down she finds her paper napkin in shreds. She gives her a weak smile, picks up her flute of champagne and takes a slow sip.

 

“I still don't understand why you just won't go and talk to him,” Bonnie says.

 

“Because I know what'll happen. One of two things. Either he'll look me in the eyes and tell me I'm a despicable person and he never wants to see me again, or . . .”

 

Bonnie raises her brow, soft smile lifting the corner of her mouth, “Or . . ?” she prods.

 

She swallows, “Or he'll look at me with those gorgeous green eyes and I'll be a hopeless molten mess and agree to be friends again.”

 

If Bonnie ignores the subtle 'friends' she slipped in there, she is eternally grateful for it.

 

“Would that really be such a bad thing Caroline?”

 

“Yes,” she says emphatically, “Yes it would.”

 

“Why?”

 

“You know why!”

 

“I hardly think you should be taking what a two hundred year old vampire who's been locked up in a prison world for over a hundred of them and still doesn't know how to work a toaster or, you know, how to actually live in this century, says to heart like that. She doesn't know you, and she definitely doesn't know you _and_ Stefan.”

 

“Maybe. Doesn't change what I did. What _we_ did.”

 

“You've got to let it go.”

 

“I can't.”

 

“Stefan!” Matt exclaims suddenly beside them and she hears Bonnie cough into her hand, “Subtle Donovan.”

 

It's a reflex. The little jolt in her heart. It almost fools her into believing it's still beating.

 

She looks up, and sure enough, there he is, standing all tuxed up and handsome.

 

He stretches out his hand and of course he says it. Of course he does.

 

“May I have this dance?”

 

It's only now she spots the filling up dance floor and realises she completely missed the newly married couple's first dance.

 

She wants to run and hide.

 

But then she does it.

 

Makes the mistake of meeting his eyes.

 

And the naked vulnerability standing there beside the fragile hope is more than enough.

 

And so she slips her hand into his and fights every last part of her that would have her believe that this, right here, is right.

 

Because it isn't.

 

It isn't.

 

 

\-----

 

 

She slips her hand into his, and he thinks it's just one of the many knots tied around his chest she's loosened. Has to remind himself to not get carried away, because there is just still so much, so much that needs to be said but hasn't been.

 

He leads her on to the dance floor and keeps her one hand in his as her other sits on his shoulder. He rests his on the curve of her waist, fingers splayed across her back.

 

She doesn't look at him as they sway in time to the music.

 

“You look beautiful.”

 

She says nothing, tilts her head further in the opposite direction to his words and his breath hits nothing but her bare neck and her earrings dance with it.

 

“Caroline,” he says softly, “Talk to me.”

 

“I can't,” she says and he hates the way the words fall from her mouth.

 

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry you had to see that part of me. I'm sorry for what he made you-”

 

She shakes her head, “Stop. Stop it Stefan. I'm the one who did this. I'm the one-”

 

“You were grieving Caroline. It's ok.”

 

“No it's not. What we did together . . . how we actually _enjoyed_ it . . .”

 

“That wasn't us.”

 

“Yes it was.”

 

“Caroline . . .”

 

“Why?” she asks, and suddenly she's there, facing him, eyes wide, searching.

 

“Why what?”

 

“Why did you do it?”

 

There's so many things that particular question could be asking but he knows her. And he knows just what exactly it is she's asking.

 

“Because you had Sarah, and you were-”

 

“No,” she interrupts him, “You didn't actually have to go through with it to do that Stefan. You're smart. Smarter than anyone ever gives you credit for. Why?” She asks again, “Why did you do it?”

 

He swallows, “Because I knew it was the only way to get you back.”

 

She takes a deep shuddering breath against him.

 

And there it is. The truth of it.

 

“Doesn't it scare you?” she asks, voice soft.

 

“No,” he lies.

 

“It should,” she breathes.

 

And he can see it, the walls coming up, the fortress being built from the ground up, her disappearing from view one brick at a time.

 

“Caroline,” he says again, and he doesn't care that it's drowning in desperation, “I-”

 

But he doesn't get to finish.

 

She kisses him then.

 

It's tear soaked, desperately hopeless and fleeting.

 

It feels a lot like goodbye.

 

When it's over, he knows that it is.

 

 

\-----

 

 

She walks away.

 

And doesn't look back.

 

 

 

\----

 

  **TBC.**


	2. Falling Action

 

\-----

 

 

Damon's hugs haven't changed.

 

He pulls him in with one arm, clapping him hard on the shoulder, squeezing tight as he lets out a hearty chuckle.

 

“Stefan,” he says, “I've missed you brother.”

 

He hugs back just as tight, “Oh I doubt that,” he answers pulling away after a beat too long, hand still on his shoulder, not quite ready to let go just yet.

 

“How have you been? Long time no see.”

 

“I've been good,” he says, and hopes Damon latches on to the half of that that's actually true, but then Damon's one of the people who know him best in this world, and the sceptical “Mmmhmm,” that leaves his lips is expected. He also knows enough about him to know that he'll talk when he's ready and so he lets it go with another clap on the back and opening the door a little wider;

 

“Well come in, come in, and tell me all about the mind-numbingly boring museums you visited and the meaningless art you spent staring at and brooding over for days, and all those European hearts you broke.”

 

He shakes his head and follows after. His lips are upturned and it feels like it's been far too long since a genuine smile has graced them. It's nice. He's forgotten how it feels on his face.

 

He settles in the armchair by the fireplace, and in daylight it's not been lit, the sun coming through the large open windows enough to heat up the room.

 

The place hasn't changed. He's not sure what he expected. It hasn't even been that long anyway.

 

Eleven months, a year, give or take?

 

It's not as if he's been counting days, weeks.

 

Damon pours him a bourbon, hands over the glass, and it's all so familiar. He feels it like a warmth pressing heavy into his chest. And it's a comfort, surprisingly, and not suffocating at all.

 

“So,” he starts, “How have _you_ been?”

 

“Me?” Damon smiles, “Oh I've been fine. Nothing new to tell. Same old Mystic Falls.”

 

“Oh really,” Stefan laughs, raising his brow and giving him a pointed look, before making his meaning abundantly clear with his next two words, “Uncle Damon.”

 

He rolls his eyes, “Ugh don't. They're a nightmare. God knows why, but they _adore_ me.”

 

“Poor you, must be terrible.”

 

“Yes poor me! They don't leave me alone, and now that they're up and moving, I actually have to do a sweep of the house before they come over. Lucas, the little brat, nearly got a glass full of O positive on his head last week.”

 

“Ahh responsibility.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

Stefan laughs, “I don't even know how Alaric gets Jo to agree to letting them even come here in the first place.”

 

“I don't know how she lets me _near_ them in the first place.”

 

“Oh you love them really.”

 

“I really don't,” Damon answers with a straight face, but it's there, shining from his bright eyes, the truth of it.

 

Kids. It's not something he's thought about for years. He remembers the odd pangs of want that would catch him off guard but it always slotted into envying the normalcy of the lives of humans around them. But the wife, the kids, the dog and the picket fence? It's something that's been written out of his future, and something he'd come to accept a very long time ago.

 

“So uh,” he starts up again, taking a sip of his drink, “Where is everyone?”

 

“And by everyone, you mean . . .”

 

“Elena, Bonnie . . .” he cuts in, not ready just yet to go where Damon is clearly heading.

 

“Well let's see,” Damon says, leaning back into his chair, “They've both gone on a road trip to visit a friend. Matt and Tyler are law enforcers in training, god help the citizens of Mystic Falls if they're our best and brightest. Jo and Ric are fighting over the best pre-schools for the terrible twosome, even though I've told them, time and time again, there isn't one. Mommy dearest is safely locked back up in her 1903 prison. And,” he finishes, opening his arms wide, “That's it. That's the gang.”

 

It's not.

 

Damon knows that very well, but he's left the proverbial ball in his court to do as he pleases.

 

And of course he's going to ask, because he can't not, and more than anything he just wants to know that she's okay, that she's happy. Because his promises of 'not letting anything happen to her' don't just cease to exist because they've burnt their friendship to the ground.

 

And so he asks, takes a breath and asks, “And Caroline? How is she?”

 

“I don't know.”

 

He furrows his brow, confused, “What do you mean, you don't know?”

 

“Well, you see,” Damon starts off, a little sheepish, “That friend Elena and Bonnie were road tripping to see . . .”

 

He swallows that piece of information down before leaning forward in his seat and putting it into words, “Caroline moved out of Mystic Falls?”

 

“You're not the only one who ran away brother.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

“Next left?”

 

“That sounds more like a question than an actual direction, Elena.”

 

Caroline wedges the phone between her shoulder and ear and lets out a little snort of laughter.

 

“Yes next left, turn, turn, yes here,” she hears Elena continue, “And stop laughing at us Caroline.”

 

“Yeah Caroline!” she hears Bonnie grouse in the background, “You try driving anywhere with Elena as your GPS.”

 

“Hey!”

 

She grabs hold of her bowl of popcorn and moves into her small living space, “How far away are you guys?”

 

“Oh another thirty, forty miles, so not far.”

 

“Okay, well drive safe, and give me a call when you get home okay?”

 

“Will do.”

 

“Miss you both already!”

 

“Miss you!”

 

“Love you!”

 

“Love you too!”

 

Several declarations of love back and forth end in the sound of the line finally going dead, and then she's left with nothing but the sound of her own breathing.

 

She blinks back tears, settles back into her couch and presses play and lets the voices from the TV fill up the deafening silence.

 

 

\-----

 

 

“New York?”

 

“Mmhmm. Transferred there a few weeks after you disappeared.”

 

It takes a few moments to process.

 

He falls back into his chair and asks “Why?” despite knowing it's a stupid question, and he really doesn't need Damon's eye roll and shaking head to tell him that.

 

“Well what made you want to hop on a plane and go on that long overdue European adventure of yours?”

 

“But New York?” he says again, incredulous, “It's so different, so big, busy, it's a . . . world away.”

 

What he means is _too far_. Funny, since he used to think it wasn't far enough.

 

“I think that was exactly the point.”

 

Damon stands up and walks over to the cabinet, pours himself another drink before walking back and topping up his own empty glass. “I'm sure,” he says, returning back to his seat, “She wouldn't mind you paying her a visit.”

 

He laughs, but it sounds remarkably bitter, “Right because four hundred miles or so of distance isn't symbolic enough?”

 

“It's been long enough,” Damon replies with a sigh, the expression on his face serious and surprisingly imploring, “Before all this, you guys were friends. Really great friends. You've given each other literal time and space, maybe now's the point where you fight to get it back.”

 

He doesn't answer him right away, let's it stew for a little.

 

“You don't even like Caroline,” he says finally.

 

“No, but I like you.”

 

He smiles.

 

“Shut up.”

 

He smiles wider.

 

“I don't hate her, and I don't hate you.”

 

“Good to know.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

She rather likes the little home she's made for herself.

 

Yes, it's a tiny little apartment, and the light in the hallway is _always_ out, and her toilet flush is temperamental at best, and she can barely fit her clothes into that god-awful green wardrobe, but it's hers.

 

And the best thing about it? It doesn't come with years of painful memories attached. No, just the new ones she gets to make for herself.

 

But then there's the tiny spiteful voice in her head that likes to pipe up now and again.

 

_Yes, but you're alone,_ it sing-songs, _all alone._

She pushes it away. She's getting better at shutting it out now.

 

Of course, when she goes out the following week and gets herself a beautiful, adorable little ginger tabby, she thinks maybe she isn't doing as well as she first thought.

 

But when the little kitten snuggles up against her curled legs on the couch, and she finds her hand stroking it's back without any conscious thought at all, she finds she doesn't care.

 

Because this is love.

 

And she hasn't felt it in quite some time.

 

 

\-----

 

 

He doesn't stop dwelling.

 

Damon's words keep him up, and it's a constant internal debate as to whether he should follow through with his advice.

 

Historically, he's been pretty terrible at dishing it out.

 

But something tells him, that this time, this time Damon may actually have a point.

 

It doesn't surprise his older brother when he finally makes his decision.

 

Walking down the stairs, packed duffel bag in one hand, and car keys in the other, Damon just offers him a smirk and a teasing, “About time.”

 

Elena looks up from her morning coffee, confusion knitting her brows, “Am I missing something?”

 

Damon helpfully wiggles his eyebrows as if it's some weird form of telepathic communication and as Elena looks between the two of them, he can't quite believe she actually gets there.

 

“Caroline?” she says, “You're going to see Caroline?”

 

And it's the way she says it, together with the look on her face, that has his self-doubt rearing it's ugly head again.

 

“Why?” he asks, “Do you think it's a bad idea?”

 

She opens her mouth to answer, but doesn't get a chance when Damon slaps his hand over her mouth and gives her a look which very clearly reads, _“What the hell are you doing?”_

“No, it's a brilliant idea. Ignore her, she's just surprised.”

 

Elena nods once, rolling her eyes before prying Damon's hand off her face. She throws him a mock dirty look, and then turns to face him in her seat, “Damon's right, I just had no idea that's what you were planning to do. And I think it'd be good for her. I do. This _thing_ has gone on for way too long.”

 

He blows out a breath, swings the duffel up and over the back of his shoulder, “Okay then. I guess I'll see you when I get back.”

 

“If you come back,” Damon says under his breath, a glint in his eyes.

 

Stefan doesn't bother with a response. He shakes his head instead, turns on his feet and throws them a backwards wave as he leaves, trying to convince himself yet again that this is a good idea.

 

And not a disaster waiting to happen.

 

 

\-----

 

 

“Ahhhh!”

 

The high pitched shriek catches everyone's attention. Heads swivel, mouths open in shock, croissants stop halfway across the expanse of their intended destinations, and precious coffee cups are held just that little bit tighter so that they may avoid that same disastrous fate.

 

“Watch where you're going! You idiot!” the woman at the centre of the fracas yells. She's dressed in a navy blue skirt-suit, but it's her previously crisp white shirt that is the unfortunate recipient of said idiot's skinny latte.

 

“You're up, Marilyn,” a voice perks up in her ear. To punctuate the point, he slides the bucket along the floor so that it bounces slightly against her foot, water sloshing dangerously.

 

She bites down her groan, slips the lid on to the coffee cup in front of her and pushes it across the counter to her waiting customer with a pasted, company smile.

 

She turns to face her boss then, perpetually red in the face regardless of mood or temperature, and sighs, “Why is it always my turn?”

 

“Because my sweet Sarah Jessica I say it is.”

 

“Fine,” she snaps, swapping places, “The things I put up with from you Luigi.”

 

“Roberto.”

 

“What was that Donato, I didn't hear you?”

 

He chuckles, swatting her away before taking her vacated space at the counter and seeing to the next customer in the line.

 

She works in a coffee shop now.

 

Part time, in between classes, and only so she can pay the rent, well part of it, _honestly._

Elena and Bonnie hadn't believed it at first, laughed it off as if it were a big fat joke, because Caroline Forbes working in a coffee shop? She would have laughed too.

 

But, somehow, she's here, because her life decided to take some untried paths along the way, and now that she is here, she finds she doesn't mind it too much.

 

It's kind of fun.

 

And it's not forever.

 

Figures she has an eternity, can do anything, be anything she wants.

 

And if cleaning up spilt coffees is part of her journey, then so be it.

 

Tightening her ponytail, she sets about mopping up the mess.

 

It's a small but busy coffee shop, not unusually packed this morning, and if it hadn't been for her enhanced hearing she probably wouldn't have heard it.

 

“Hi there, what can I get you?”

 

“Hi, actually I was wondering if you'd be able to help me. I'm uh looking for someone. Her name's Caroline. Caroline Forbes. I heard she works here?”

 

She recognises the voice the second he opens his mouth. She's heard that 'Hi' a thousand times before, too many times to count over the past few months, both awake and in sleep, always in her head and never real.

 

But she knows this time it is.

 

Because she's always known she can't run from it forever.

 

And neither can he.

 

Bert points him in her direction about the same time as she turns, mop still in hand.

 

She breathes out, and thinks it's in time with him as he turns in her direction.

 

“Hi,” he says.

 

“Hi.”

 

_(It's been forever.)_

\-----

 

“Hi,” he says again, and feels only marginally _more_ like a dumbstruck idiot.

 

Because she's here. He's here.

 

_They're_ here, in this moment, and it's not as if he's not replayed the many ways this moment could go in his head.

 

It's not as if he hasn't played it side by side with that image of her walking away, lips still burning from the touch of hers, wet with her tears, and the hollow, aching feeling of having something so precious in his grasp, only for it to slip away.

 

It's not as if he hasn't tortured himself with it for months, and stupidly believed that running away to Europe was the same as chasing it all away.

 

She looks exactly how he remembers.

 

But then why would she look any different?

 

Impervious to time they may be, but heart break?

 

Maybe it was just his that had split apart.

 

She looks away first, drops the mop in the bucket beside her before looking back. The shock of seeing him smoothed away in that short second.

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

He doesn't answer her straight away. Thinks from the way she tilts her head, and her eyes fall closed, the slightest pink tinge that floods her cheeks, she gets the redundancy of her question.

 

Still, he says, “Oh you know, had a sudden burning desire to climb the Empire State Building.”

 

She's kind enough to smile, “Really?”

 

“Yeah no, New York Public Library seems more my style, doesn't it?”

 

The smile falls, takes a moment before saying, “I uh finish at three.”

 

“Three,” he repeats, taking a second of his own and nodding, “Three, yeah, sure. I'll come by then.”

 

“No.”

 

It certainly feels like his heart stops with the word, but he knows it's an impossibility.

 

“I mean, no, um, Columbus Circle, by the fountain.”

 

He breathes again and nods.

 

“I'll come find you there.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Okay.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

“Who was your friend?” Bert asks as she returns to the counter.

 

“Someone I used to know.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

He thinks he spots her face in the busy crowd a total of four times before he actually gets it right.

 

There's a cautious, guarded smile on her face as she approaches him on the steps.

 

Everything just feels so off-balance, out of sync, but then he's not sure what he should have expected after all this time. After everything they've been through, things were never just going to fall into place. Naivety was never one of his flaws.

 

“Hey.”

 

“How was the rest of your shift?” he asks.

 

“Fine. Same as every day.”

 

“Right.”

 

“So uh have you been here long?”

 

“No, just ten, fifteen minutes.”

 

_(An hour. Or two.)_

“No, I meant here, the city?”

 

“Oh, no, I just got here today.”

 

The _and I came looking straight for you_ implicit.

 

“So you've not had a chance to look around yet, see the sights?”

 

He smiles, shoves his hands into his pockets, “I've been here a couple of times before. Once in the 60's, then again late 80's, early 90's.”

 

“Oh,” she says, “Well I'm sure it's changed a lot since then,” about the same time as he opens his mouth and says, “But I'm sure it's a lot different now.”

 

There's an awkward pause, and it's painful.

 

Palpably so.

 

“How about I show you around?” she says after a beat.

 

“Sure. I'd like that.”

 

And even though he's walking a mere few inches away from her, the closest he's been in months, he's never felt further apart.

 

The whole afternoon is one endless awkward, uneasy moment after another and by the end of it he wants to cut his losses, run away again and bury his head in the sand.

 

But somehow she does it. She throws him a lifeline, because apparently she always has been the braver, the stronger of the two of them.

 

“So,” she says as they cross the road, nearing her apartment and the end of their stroll, “I heard you ran away to Europe?”

 

He laughs, feels the pressure valve give way just a fraction, “I heard you ran away to New York?”

 

“Transferred college. Not running away.”

 

“Ahh,” he says with a tilt of his head, “So still pursuing those dreams of acting and stardom, huh?”

 

“And where better?”

 

“Good point.”

 

“Well,” she says on a sigh and a shrug of her shoulders, “This is me.”

 

His eyes are drawn to the old apartment building behind him, six storeys high and looking a little worse for wear.

 

“You live here?” he asks, and regrets his tone as soon as the words leave his mouth.

 

“Don't judge.”

 

“I'm not.”

 

“Sure.”

 

“I'm not!”

 

“Fine, you may as well come up and see for yourself.”

 

And he has to force himself to not read anything into it, and silently barks at damned hope instead, telling it to stay down. He'd been burned by it far too many times now to count to give it another chance.

 

He follows wordlessly behind her, climbing up the flights of stairs, listening to her complaints about the lift being out of order. Again.

 

She stops suddenly, and he barely manages to avoid crashing into her.

 

“Oh,” she says over her shoulder, as if she's just remembered something vitally important, “Watch out for Meg, she's a biter.”

 

_Meg?_ He mouths at her back.

 

Who the hell was Meg?

 

 

\-----

 

 

It's quite a sight.

 

Hundred and sixty year old vampire, Stefan Salvatore, succumbing to a cat.

 

“You have a cat,” he remarks, obviously dumbfounded.

 

But it's not even that, it's the awe on his face and the fact she literally just watches him melt in front of her face, and she really cannot believe this is happening.

 

The little ginger tabby takes a shine to him almost immediately, and she barely manages to suppress the “traitor” that wants to leave her lips. Like mother like daughter. Always had been unable to resist a Salvatore.

 

“Meg normally hates everyone.”

 

“Meg,” he repeats, running his hand over her head, and she's literally purring.

 

“Short for Nutmeg.”

 

He smiles at that, but he's still looking down at the little ginger furball in his arms with an expression she's seen only once before.

 

Light breeze and a setting sun, dead heart beating out of her chest.

 

It still hurts.

 

And she hates that it does.

 

“Um,” so she says interrupting, “This is my place.”

 

He looks up and takes it in, “It's nice,” he says after a minute or so.

 

“Don't lie.”

 

“I'm not,” he laughs, “It's um very . . . _nice_.”

 

She shakes her head, a smile on her face.

 

And it almost feels real. Almost.

 

“Why are you here?”

 

She asks the question, admitting defeat. She's been battling the question, the need to actually _talk_ the entire afternoon. He may have made the decision to find her, but he was still closed off, leaving her to do the heavy lifting.

 

She supposes she owes him that much.

 

She had been the first to walk away after all.

 

He sighs, lets Meg down on to the floor and watches as she runs off into the small kitchenette.

 

“Because it's about time don't you think?”

 

“Stefan . . . I can't . . . you can't,” and she doesn't know how that sentence ends.

 

_(We're friends right? Tell each other things? Trust each other?)_

And though she may not know what exactly it is she's trying to say, Stefan, having spent the whole day _not saying anything at all_ , finally does.

 

“Because before all this, we were friends,” he continues on, “Because, you were the one person I could be myself with. Because, running away didn't change anything, it just meant I missed you more. Because I don't care about what happened before, it's not enough to just let whatever this is, wither and die.”

 

Somewhere along the way he'd moved, and now he's there, standing right in front of her, hands on both her arms, holding her there, eyes searching, imploring.

 

_Let it go_ , they say, _please. Let it go._

“Caroline, I know what happened scared you, and my dear old psychotic mass murdering, now back where she belongs, mother didn't help things-”

 

She raises her brow, surprise clear on her face. He catches the look on her face, stops mid-sentence and gives her a wry smile, “Yeah, I know all about that.”

 

“How?”

 

“Damon may or may not have overheard part of your conversation that day, filled in the blank spaces, and then told me after the wedding, when I clearly had been in no place to process, but Damon never was one for timing. I've had months to think about it though now, and maybe I'm beginning to understand a little of why you ran.”

 

“It's not the only reason,” she says.

 

“I figured.”

 

She stares back at him, and it's pure hope shining from his eyes and she flashes back to that night, hand warm in his, swaying to nothing but the illusion of their hearts beating out of time, and it's the same look. The same one.

 

She shattered that hope last time.

 

She could do it again.

 

It would be so easy to do.

 

“Caroline, I need you. Be it as my friend, or something more, it doesn't matter, I just know that I need you. Come back home. Please.”

 

It's him standing there now bare and vulnerable, pleading in the dark.

 

_(Then stay.)_

 

“I can't,” she breathes.

 

His arms fall away as he steps back, and she can see him shutting down.

 

She steps forward, “I can't,” she says again, a little more firmly, “I have to finish out this semester before they'll let me transfer back and I know I could compel them to do whatever I want, but I did just land the lead in the summer production and I can't just leave! Like that!”

 

The silence just sits there and then he's shaking his head and laughing, and he's looking at her like he either wants to strangle or kiss her, and it's enough for the panic to start to set back in.

 

“Friends,” she bursts out, takes a breath and starts again, “Did you really mean that, about being friends?”

 

He stares at her, “If that's what you want?”

 

Now or never.

 

“Yes.”

 

If that was the answer he was looking for, she'll never know.

 

He steps back towards her, hand outstretched, “Hi, I'm Stefan Salvatore.”

 

She smiles, and takes it, “Caroline Forbes, nice to meet you.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

_Be it as my friend, or something more, it doesn't matter._

 

It doesn't matter?

 

He hates himself for days.

 

Friends?

 

_Friends._

 

He can do this.

 

_He can._

He'll be the best damn friend she's ever had.

 

 

\-----

 

 

“So let me get this straight. You called me all the way out here, four hundred miles and over six hours of non-stop driving, to fix a light bulb?”

 

He honestly looks like he doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.

 

“Mmmghno,” she says spoon in mouth.

 

He just stares at her and drops his bag to the floor with a thud.

 

Removing spoon from mouth, she sticks it in the tub of cookie dough ice cream in her hand, “Mmm no, not just the light bulb.”

 

“Oh?” he asks, folding his arms across his chest.

 

“Yeah the toilet's flush, I think I may have really broken it this time and oh! I bought myself a new cupboard because have you seen the size of my wardrobe? And I thought maybe you could help me put it together?”

 

“And by help _you_ , you of course mean you just sit and watch and eat all the ice cream while I do all the work?”

 

“Oh there's plenty of ice cream to go around,” she smiles, “And I didn't have any tools.”

 

“Well neither do I, Caroline!” he grumps, “I didn't think to bring any! When you said emergency, I thought you know, life-and-death actual emergency!”

 

“The toilet not flushing is an emergency.”

 

She thinks he may be seconds away from spinning on his feet and storming out, and she thinks it would be rather hilarious because Stefan Salvatore, storming around anywhere? It's more Damon's style, drama queen that he is. But she does feel bad. A little. She didn't realise he'd take her at her word quite so literally.

 

And so she tries to pacify him.

 

“And maybe Meg's been missing you.”

 

_(Maybe I have.)_

She picks up the cat and holds her up right next to her, faces side by side and just watches as she works her magic on him.

 

He unfolds his arms, drops his head before looking back.

 

He loses his battle against the burgeoning smile, and shakes his head.

 

“So, know any hardware stores open at this time of night?”

 

She grins.

 

 

\-----

 

 

He's woken by the buzz of his phone on the night stand.

 

Reaching out he blindly grabs at it. Doesn't bother looking at the screen as he swipes his finger across it.

 

“Hello?” His voice is thick and heavy with sleep.

 

There's only silence, followed by heavy breathing and he feels the irritation creeping up and ridding him of what's left of his grogginess.

 

“Hello?” he says again, “Who is this?”

 

His question is answered with laughter and he recognises it instantly.

 

“Caroline?”

 

“Hiiiiii! Sss Ssstefan!”

 

“Are you drunk?”

 

“Nope,” she says, popping the 'p'.

 

He sits up, “Where are you?”

 

“Out with friends.”

 

“Uh huh, and you're drunk dialling me at 2am because?”

 

“Cos I'm drunk as a skunk!”

 

He thinks he can forgive himself for that one.

 

“Caroline . . .”

 

“No, no, no,” she half sings, “Don't rain on my parade!”

 

“Caroline-”

 

“Anyway _hiccup_ I've got the boys to look after me _hiccup._ ”

 

“Boys?”

 

“They're really cute. _You're really cute!”_ she tells one of them.

 

He rubs a hand across his face.

 

“Don't be jealous. Are you jealous? They're cute, true. Pretty. But you?” she giggles, “You're. You're. Sexy. You're sexy.”

 

He shakes his head, “Caroline-”

 

“And I love you. So much.”

 

He has to remind himself that she's drunk. How or why she got herself so drunk he has no idea, but he knows he won't be able to get to the bottom of that until tomorrow.

 

“Hey!” she suddenly shouts, and he's immediately on edge, feet swinging around off his bed. “Hey give that back!”

 

“Caroline? Caroline, you okay? What's going on?”

 

“Hello, who's this?” A man's voice comes on the other end of the line and it's vaguely familiar, but not enough to calm him down.

 

“Who's this?” he counters.

 

“Bert, Caroline's boss, is that you Stefan?”

 

He literally sags in relief, remembers Bert from one of his previous visits. Good man.

 

“Yeah it is. She okay?”

 

“Yeah just a little too much to drink, called me earlier as well. Don't worry I'll get her home.”

 

“Thanks man.”

 

“Yeah no problem.”

 

He doesn't stop worrying, not until the morning. Not until he gets a text from her and he knows she's safe. A little mortified and remorseful, but safe.

 

She doesn't remember half of what she said, and he doesn't probe any further.

 

Reminds himself again that it didn't mean anything.

 

But there's a thought he can't shake.

 

A saying he once heard, and he curses whoever came up with it.

 

_A drunk mind speaks a sober heart._

Wishful thinking.

 

No truth in it at all.

 

Right?

\-----

 

 

Caroline surprises them all with a visit one weekend. Explains it away as feeling home sick and Bonnie has half a mind to ask her why this time is any different to all those phone calls over the months when she'd call claiming to miss Mystic Falls but still refusing to set foot back here.

 

She thinks the refusals had been to prove a point. Prove it wasn't Stefan keeping her away.

 

She thinks her friend has become a brilliant liar.

 

She watches her. Sitting on the couch, one leg dangling, the other folded, body angled ever so slightly towards Stefan who's sitting beside her, arm casually stretched out along the back rest. She's busy regaling Elena and Matt with some dramatic tale of her New York adventures, but it's Stefan's smile that has her intrigued.

 

Or maybe it's more his entire expression.

 

“Friends!” the word is spat out in a harsh whisper, dripping in distaste.

 

She doesn't bother looking up at him.

 

Damon bumps his hip against hers as he joins her standing there near the door.

 

“If they're just friends,” he continues, “then I'll eat Caroline's damned cat.”

 

Bonnie throws him a look of utter disgust before snatching his glass of bourbon from his fingers and swallowing it down.

 

Secretly, she agrees.

 

The friends bit. Not the eating the cat bit.

 

 

\-----

 

 

“Caroline!”

 

“In here.”

 

She's sitting there bouncing her head against the wall.

 

“Caroline?” he calls again, and she can just see the confusion on his face.

 

“Here.”

 

There's the sound of footsteps, and the scrape of metal on metal as he pushes the clothes aside on the railing, and he's standing there, staring at her as if she's gone off the deep end. And she has. She totally has.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“Freaking out.”

 

“Now's probably not the right time. You know you're supposed to be going on in like five minutes, right? The whole company's panicking.”

 

She knows. She does, but she's completely terrified and she hasn't got a clue why. Never had a problem performing before. And then she's moaning pitifully into her hands, “I don't know what's wrong with me.”

 

“Hey, hey,” he says, voice low and soothing, and then he's there, crouching in front of her, both her hands being pulled away gently and clasped tight in his, “You can do this. You can.”

 

He slows his breathing, in and out, and she follows after.

 

_(When you feel the blood rushing, you tell yourself that you're going to get through it, that you're strong enough.)_

“You're gonna be fine. You are. The number of times you made me go over that damned play, I think I've got all of Act Three memorised myself.”

 

“Yeah well, I wish you were my Prince Charming.”

 

There's a slight second delay before she realises just what she said. She can't help the blush as Stefan stares at her, eyes wide. Her own drop to his lips, and there's a smile there teasing up the edges, and the butterflies that had been fluttering around before erupt for an entirely different reason.

 

“You know what I mean,” she says.

 

“Yeah I do,” he says, pulling his hands away and straightening up.

 

She follows suit, climbing to her feet.

 

“Ready?” he asks.

 

She nods.

 

 

\-----

 

 

She's brilliant.

 

Not that he had expected her to be anything but.

 

He's there in the crowd with Elena, Bonnie, Matt cheering her on. There are claps and enthusiastic whistles as they take their bows. He watches her eyes scan the audience and it isn't until they land on him that she stops searching.

 

He thinks it must mean something.

 

She hugs him later. Finds him somehow through the throng of people at the after-party.

 

She's bright and beaming.

 

And so so beautiful.

 

She hugs him tight, reaching up on pointed toes to wrap her arms around him and rest her head on his shoulder.

 

She smiles into his neck, “Thank you for being such a great friend. I'm glad I have you back.”

 

He doesn't get a chance to respond.

 

She's pulled away by classmates, squealing with excitement, and their conversation is drowned out by the beat of the music and all that's left are wild gesticulating arms and flushed faces.

 

He can't explain it.

 

The twisting in his gut, the blood rushing in his ears. Has to remind himself to breathe because all he sees are throbbing pulses all around him and he knows it wouldn't take much.

 

Nothing at all really.

 

He orders a drink from the bar, presses both hands flat on the counter and drops his head, taking in a deep breath.

 

“Stefan?” someone asks, “You okay?”

 

Bonnie.

 

He breathes out.

 

“Yeah, I'm fine.”

 

“Really?”

 

“No,” he laughs.

 

She doesn't sound surprised, “Finally figured it out have you?”

 

He turns to face her, hip leaning into the bar, the question there on his tongue.

 

But she's not looking at him, she's looking over at Caroline laughing in the crowd.

 

And then he gets it.

 

But she says it anyway, just in case he hasn't.

 

“So, the question is . . . what are you going to do about it?”

 

_I think you can either be friends with someone or in love with them. I don't think you can be both._

 

Wrong. 

 

He'd got it so completely wrong.

 

And with that, he feels lighter. Feels a sense of purpose flow in his veins, replacing the rushing blood.

 

It's clarity.

 

But Bonnie's still waiting.

 

And so he grabs his drink, and walks away. Stops after a few paces, and spins back to face her, and finally answers her.

 

It's quite simple, really.

 

“Get the girl.”

 

 

 

 

  **TBC.**

 

 


	3. Denouement

 

\-----

 

 

Performing is a rush like nothing she's ever felt before.

 

Taking that first leap is always the hardest, but once she does, once she steps off that edge and is hurtling through the air, she doesn't think there's anything better.

 

It's a cliché, she knows it is, tells him as much on the night of their last show. She stands there bouncing on her feet, arms flapping wild around her, excitement oozing from every pore.

 

But in the end, it's just one addiction replacing another. And she knows that. Very well.

 

She's never said it, doesn't think she can, but flipping the switch left a bigger dent than she can admit to. She's not quite as malleable as she used to be though, still a work in progress, and isn't going to be fixed overnight.

 

She doesn't tell him that.

 

Thinks he has enough guilt to sink entire fleets.

 

And the look on his face isn't helping things either.

 

She stops mid-sentence, smile frozen on her face and asks, “What? What's wrong?”

 

The soft smile on his face falls away, “You know you can't, don't you?”

 

She does.

 

She just never had the heart to confront it before.

 

Because dreams of acting died with the seventeen year old human girl.

 

Because the curse of being able to live forever means she can never be immortal.

 

Not on screen.

 

She laughs it off, “I know, Stefan! It's not as if I'm actually an aspiring actress. It's a hobby, I enjoy it, that's all.”

 

Never mind she's actually talented.

 

But he reads her so well.

 

Or maybe it's because she's always made it so easy for him.

 

Book open, pages fluttering in the wind.

 

But he? He is the very opposite.

 

A leather bound journal, locked up and hidden away.

 

And so it's a surprise when he hugs her.

 

Steps into her, arms wrapping around tight, and she stands there just breathing him in.

 

“I'm sorry.”

 

She doesn't say a word.

 

He pulls back then, one hand still on her arm, and she thinks there's something different about him but she can't quite peg it.

 

“Let's go home,” he says.

 

“Okay.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

He thinks he knows what he's doing.

 

_(He really doesn't.)_

Acceptance is half the battle.

 

Now that he's perfectly clear on being wrong, knows that being in love and being friends doesn't have to be two separate fates, that you can actually _be both_ , he's more than ready for step two.

 

And this time, committing to it.

 

No dipping toes in, and running away at the first hint of ice cold truth.

 

The only problem being, or course, getting the girl has never come easy.

 

Not to him.

 

So far in his hundred and sixty years of existence, he's 0 for 2.

 

It's pretty abysmal.

 

And maybe the liquor's to blame (isn't it always?) for his sudden burst of bravado that night.

 

Because in the cold light of day, he thinks he's got an uphill battle and self-doubt is only the first hurdle.

 

He loads the last of the boxes into the car, leans up against it and waits.

 

“Caroline!” he calls up to her open window, “Come on, we've got to get moving!”

 

“I'm coming!” she calls down and he sees a flash of blonde hair at the window as she pulls on the latch, and it falls closed.

 

“I'm coming, I'm coming,” she says again, her voice a little louder and then she's there at the front entrance of her apartment building, last box in hand.

 

He pushes off from the car, jogs up to her and relieves her of the load.

 

“Thanks.”

 

When he looks back, she's still standing there.

 

Staring up at the home she'd made for herself. It may not have been much, but it had been her safe haven and he understands. He does. And so he does the only thing he can do.

 

Walking back up to her, he slides his hand into hers and squeezes.

 

It's a show of support, and a declaration of _I'm not going anywhere_ rolled into one.

 

And she gets it as she smiles and doesn't let go.

 

Maybe, he thinks, just maybe this time he'll get on the scoreboard.

 

 

\-----

 

 

When they finally cross the border into Mystic Falls, and the sign flies past her rolled down window in greeting, she feels the air thin around her, her lungs are stuck to the insides of her ribcage and for the life of her she can't get them to shift what air there is.

 

Yes, she'd been back here before.

 

But she'd had New York waiting for her then.

 

She'd had a place to run.

 

That place doesn't exist any more.

 

And it's funny how that changes things.

 

He must sense it, the impending panic, because though his eyes stay firmly on the road and his one hand remains steady on the steering wheel, his other finds hers effortlessly.

 

There's no fumbling around, or searching fingers.

 

No, his hand finds hers just like that, warm and solid, and so very sure of himself.

 

“You keep doing that,” she says, staring at his jawline.

 

“Doing what?”

 

“Holding my hand.”

 

She's not sure why she says it. Feels like an idiot the minute the words leave her lips, and she's sure she's blushing a bright red but he doesn't so much as blink. Doesn't stutter an apology, doesn't tug his hand away lightning fast as if he's been burnt. No, he just keeps on driving, face impassive as always and simply asks, a little too nonchalantly, “Do I?”

 

And that, she thinks, is his mistake.

 

She doesn't look away as she says it, “I really appreciate your support, you're a great friend.”

 

It's subtle, and she may have missed it if she hadn't been looking so closely.

 

But he does it.

 

He clenches his jaw.

 

And isn't that the damndest thing?

 

 

\-----

 

 

He thinks he's made a mistake the second the car rolls to a stop.

 

It's the look on her face.

 

The shock falls away to leave behind nothing but sad eyes and when she turns to look at him the question doesn't need voicing.

 

It echoes in his head.

 

_Why?_

It's a question he doesn't know how to answer.

 

It's a gut feeling he can't explain away and though he may have thought it, he knows it's not.

 

It's not a mistake.

 

And he hopes she can see through it to realise it too.

 

She turns away from him and stares out the window.

 

“Caroline . . .”

 

She doesn't answer him, pulls on the handle of the door and climbs out the car.

 

He follows after her, up the stairs and on to the front porch of her childhood home.

 

The key is still there under the door mat, and when she reaches out to unlock the door, there's a tremor running up her arm and it's all he can do from grabbing her hand again and steadying it.

 

Because this? This is something she needs to do for herself.

 

With the blinds down and curtains drawn, the house is shrouded in darkness.

 

It's mostly empty since he'd only managed to retrieve some of the furniture she'd sold off during her humanity-less purge.

 

The one thing glaringly missing though is Liz's favourite armchair, and it's the first thing she notices.

 

Standing in the spot where it should have been, she hugs her arms to her chest and lets out a long, drawn out breath.

 

“I'm sorry,” he says, “I looked everywhere for it, but I couldn't get it back.”

 

She nods, “It's okay.”

 

“Caroline,” he starts over again, “If this isn't what you want, you can come and stay with us, there's plenty of room, and it'll only be until you start up again at Whitmore, but I thought you should get to make the choice for yourself.”

 

She doesn't answer him, not for a long while. She walks around silently, hands reaching out to brush along the surface of the walls and up the banister as she climbs upstairs. He doesn't follow, stands and waits. Knows she'll come to him when she's ready.

 

When she finally is, it's with a watery smile and a gratitude that overwhelms.

 

“Thank you,” is all she says.

 

And it's all she needs to.

 

 

\-----

 

 

It's difficult at first.

 

And there are many moments where she feels like she's drowning in the memories and the walls are closing in on her, and maybe this actually is the worst decision in the world.

 

But then sometimes it's just the littlest thing. It can be the way the floorboards creak under her feet at the top of the stairs at that particular spot without fail, every time. Or how the sunlight beaming through the open curtains is always the brightest at three in the afternoon, and hits that one corner in the living room, glinting off the light wood of the cabinet.

 

This is home, she realises.

 

Her home.

 

Her mom had left her this place so that she'd always have a roof over her head.

 

And wherever she was, she's sure it's bringing her a measure of comfort, and it's one thing she can still do for her even though she's gone.

 

And so she stays.

 

When Bonnie suggests redecorating, she's hesitant at first but soon comes around to the idea.

 

It's one way of making it easier to live alongside the memories than constantly battling them.

 

It also ends up being the most fun she's had since coming back.

 

The whole gang turns up on a Sunday afternoon, armed with paintbrushes and rollers.

 

Even Damon comes knocking on her front door.

 

She can't help the surprise and the way she spits out the words, “What are _you_ doing here?”

 

Damon, for his part, looks just as pleased to be there, “Well, someone's got to supervise you kids. God knows what awful colour scheme you've gone and picked out Blondie. If I see even a hint of fuschia-”

 

He's interrupted by Elena popping her head up over his shoulder from behind, she squeezes his arms hard enough to make him wince and stop mid-sentence, “Ignore him. I invited him along, thought we could do with some extra hands, but he is under strict instructions to obey your commands.”

 

And well that doesn't sound so bad.

 

She crosses her arms across her chest, before tipping her head back and giving in with a sigh, “Fine! You can come in!”

 

Stefan, is there, of course. Turns up before everyone else and gets to work without any preamble.

 

She finds her productivity plummets the second she's in a room with him.

 

Her eyes find him wherever he is, and her attempts to ignore him are futile.

 

It doesn't help that he's dressed in a white v-neck t-shirt (white? For DIY? Really?) and a pair of jeans he wears perfectly. And she can't be held responsible for her eyes straying where they do, because she'd challenge anyone, _anyone_ , to see how long they last without looking.

 

It is so completely on purpose. It has to be.

 

Because he knows.

 

Oh he knows when her eyes are on him, because he'll meet her gaze head on and smile, but it's the twinkle in his eyes, like he knows something she doesn't, and she has half a mind to storm up to him and ask him just what the hell he's doing.

 

“I see you, Caroline Forbes,” Bonnie says, sidling up to her, interrupting her not so clean thoughts. She's across the room from Stefan where he's working on replacing the hinges of the door.

 

She shakes her head, “I have no idea what you're talking about Bonnie Bennett.”

 

“Uh huh.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Soooo . . .” she says with a grin, ignoring her entirely, “Drooling over your best friend? That's completely in the rule book is it?”

 

She realises Bonnie's not going to let up and gives in, plays along, “Yep.”

 

“Oh well in that case, can I say Miss Forbes, you are looking super hot in that oversized shirt and with paint all over your face.”

 

She frowns, hands going up to her cheek, “What paint?”

 

Bonnie, quick as a flash, runs her paintbrush across her cheek and nose before she has any chance to react.

 

“That paint!” she laughs before making a run for it.

 

“Bonnie Bennett!” she shrieks after her.

 

 

\-----

 

 

“So that's the plan, is it?” Damon asks.

 

He steps away from the door as he closes it, pays no real attention to him as he checks the edges where it sits in the door frame.

 

“Pretty devilish even for you brother.”

 

He sighs, “Damon, what are you talking about?”

 

“Classic,” he continues, “I like it.”

 

“Damon . . .”

 

“Bringing out the big guns, flashing those pearly whites, would make any girl weak in the knees. But please,” he says grabbing hold of his arm, “Tell me there's more to this plan? Because even these biceps, impressive though they are, are not gonna cut it on their own.”

 

He shakes his head and sighs, spins the screwdriver in his hand between in his fingers, and gives in, “Oh there's more,” he says with a conspiratorial wink, “A lot more.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

The front door is open as she pushes it aside.

 

It immediately sets off alarm bells in her head because she's sure she locked it on her way out this afternoon.

 

She creeps in quietly, drops her shopping bags on the floor in the hallway and calls out, clear and strong, “Hello?”

 

There's no reply at first, and maybe it's just paranoia settling in after living out in the big bad city all alone, but she calls out just one more time to be sure.

 

And this time, she gets an answer, “In here!”

 

_Stefan?_

 

She breathes out a sigh of relief but there's still an edge of annoyance. He could have at least text her in warning, before breaking and entering, and giving her a mini heart attack (if she could actually have one that it is).

 

The words to berate him, however, die on her tongue when she turns the corner and follows his voice into the living room.

 

He sits there on the couch, Meg curled up comfortably across his lap purring softly as he strokes her, bowl of popcorn balanced on the armrest, boxes of pizza on the table beside a stack of DVDs, and with a smile on his face.

 

“Hey.”

 

“Hey,” she smiles back, and takes a step into the room, “What's, uh, what's all this?”

 

“Dinner and a movie,” he answers her as if it's so obvious, and not a big deal at all.

 

“Oh,” she says, raising her brow as she takes off her jacket and drapes it on the back of one of the chairs, “Because friends do this all the time, right?”

 

“Exactly,” he nods, not even phased in the slightest by her question.

 

Fine, if that's how it is.

 

She can do this.

 

She can go along with this.

 

“So, what are we watching?”

 

She lifts one leg on to the couch and folds it beneath her, reaches down to lift up the pile of DVDs and sort through them.

 

“Your choice.”

 

He's so transparent, it's kind of cute.

 

It's one chick flick after another, and there's even a very subtle _When Harry Met Sally_ sitting in the pile. And of course, he didn't want to be too obvious so he's sure to have sneaked in a few action movies as well.

 

“This one,” she smiles, turning the case around to face him.

 

He furrows his brow, “Pacific Rim?”

 

“Yeah, it's awesome.”

 

“Really? I just thought . . .”

 

“Thought what?”

 

“Never mind. I've not seen it, so . . .”

 

“So, you're in for a treat.”

 

She realises halfway through the movie that maybe she isn't as clever as she first thought, and that Stefan is a whole lot sneakier than she'd anticipated, because this wasn't any old movie he'd just randomly chosen and decided to slip in.

 

Oh no.

 

She would later blame Elena and Bonnie for tiring her out on their shopping trip earlier in the day, and the stomach full of pizza for her head dropping on to Stefan's shoulder about half an hour in.

 

Somewhere along the way, Meg had abandoned Stefan's arms and wandered off. And so she'd blame her and the entirely engrossing movie, of course, for missing the moment when she thought Stefan's lap would make a more comfortable pillow.

 

It's not until Mako and Raleigh are side by side in the _Gipsy Danger_ kicking some serious Kaiju ass that she feels Stefan's fingers running up and down her arm, and he breaks his silence, “You know I think we'd make pretty awesome Jaegar pilots.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

He has her hand in his, fingers entwined, “Yeah,” he breathes out, before adding a moment later, “I think we'd be Drift Compatible.”

 

She's caught off guard by the statement, swivels her head around to look up at him. He's looking down at her with an expression that has her breath catching in her throat, and she just knows she hadn't been wrong.

 

“You lied, you have seen this.”

 

“Maybe.”

 

And then his hand is in her hair, thumb tracing her cheek, brushing over her lips, and his eyes only follow.

 

She swallows, “Stefan . . .”

 

She's sure he would have kissed her then, but Meg's timing is impeccable as a sudden crash from the kitchen has her jumping out of her skin and she nearly head butts him in her rush to get up, “What the hell . . ?”

 

She follows the sudden ruckus to the kitchen and finds her dish rack on the floor, several broken plates and her kitten cowering in the corner.

 

The fact that Stefan makes a beeline for Meg, and checks her over first, genuinely concerned, does nothing to stem the overflow of feelings.

 

Feelings, she realises that never went anywhere.

 

And when he smiles at her, cuddling her cat to his chest and says with a reassuring smile, “She's okay,” she knows she's only been fooling herself.

 

 

\-----

 

 

The look on her face is priceless.

 

It's something he actually wishes he'd thought of himself in his grand plan to woo one Caroline Forbes. But this? This ends up being just one happy accident.

 

He also can't be held responsible for his brother being an idiot, and apparently just casually directing her to his bedroom and neglecting to tell her the part about him being in the shower.

 

She's just lucky he has his towel wrapped around him when he walks out and that he's secured it tight enough that the shock of seeing her doesn't result in any more 'happy accidents.'

 

“Caroline!”

 

“Oh!” she stutters, “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.” Her eyes zone in on his chest, fall to his abs, and then frantically leap back up to his face before she thinks again about that too and slaps a hand across her eyes and spins on the spot. She's blushing a furious red.

 

He thinks it's a slight overreaction, but she certainly doesn't seem to think so as her ramble continues, “Damon told me that you were up here reading and that it was fine to come up but trust him to do something like this!”

 

“It's fine Caroline,” he says, and he knows he shouldn't, knows it'll just add to the awkwardness but he's getting a little tired of beating around the bush, and so he shrugs and takes the plunge, “And anyway, it's nothing you haven't seen before, and a lot more at that.”

 

She turns back shocked and clearly flustered, “That was, I mean, that was . . .”

 

“That was what Caroline?” he asks, doing up the button on his jeans.

 

She tries and fails not to stare at his bare chest.

 

He stalks towards her and her eyes flicker back up to his face and this time she does a reasonably valiant job of maintaining eye contact though he by no means makes it easy on her. Not when he reaches forward to grab the t-shirt hanging on the chair behind her and brushes up against her to do it.

 

She bites down on her lip and it takes a lot of self-restraint to not kiss her there and then.

 

“You know, since we are friends, I think we should be able broach the subject of sex without all this awkwardness, don't you think?”

 

She purses her lips and stares at him, takes a moment before answering. Her voice is surprisingly steady and confident when she responds with a question of her own, “Sex in general? Or you know the crazy good but thoroughly debauched humanity-free sex we indulged in? Multiple times over,” she adds rather unnecessarily.

 

He fails at hiding his shock. And he doesn't know how she's done it, but somehow, somewhere along the way she's managed to turn the tables on him.

 

She pushes up on to her toes, leaning into him as she rests one hand on his still damp skin, fingers splayed. She tilts her head back slightly and looks up at him through her lashes and finishes with just one more question, “Why would that be awkward?”

 

The air around them feels heavy and saturated with tension, every nerve ending charged, the potential limitless and thrilling.

 

He'd always known it, but if there had been any doubts, it's entirely eviscerated now.

 

Caroline Forbes is a force of nature and he is completely at her mercy.

 

And she knows it.

 

She smiles at him, not a hint of mockery, just pure innocence, so at odds with the hand currently trailing sparks across his skin.

 

“Because it's not,” she says in the face of his silence, “Unless it is for you?”

 

“Nope,” he manages to say, clearing his throat.

 

“Good,” she nods before slapping her hand against his chest and pushing away.

 

She turns on her feet then and walks back to the door before stopping mid-step with an “Oh I forgot,” and spinning back around to face him, “Bonnie's birthday party? We're having it here. Hope that's okay?”

 

She doesn't give him a chance to respond, just walks out without a backward glance.

 

 

\-----

 

 

Retaliation is a given.

 

And this time she doesn't put up a fight.

 

“There you are.”

 

He comes to find her outside, wandering the grounds of the Salvatore estate, the party still in full swing behind her, music spilling out the open windows but there's no one around for miles to care.

 

She folds her arms across her chest and turns slightly to face him.

 

“What are you doing out here?” he asks.

 

She smiles, “Just catching my breath.”

 

He nods, “Yeah, I saw you dancing up a storm in there.”

 

There's something about his expression she can't quite put her finger on, but when he extends his hand, and says with the beginnings of smile, “Think you have enough left in you for one more?” she  thinks maybe she's getting an inkling.

 

She flashes back to a warm summer evening, champagne flowing, soft music and laughter muting the harsh sound of heart break.

 

Something tells her this time will be different.

 

Taking his outstretched hand, she steps in close. His other hand curves around to find its place on her lower back.

 

They sway like that, dancing under the stars, the moon bright in the sky, and she feels it then. The last few bricks of her walls crumbling, the walls that she built that same night they last danced, and it feels like it's time. Finally time.

 

He lifts his head away, looks down at her with sparkling eyes as he asks, “Have you uh been down to the falls yet, I heard they're really cool at night, and I can uh show you, if you want?”

 

Her entire face is taken over by her smile, and she's looking up at him wide eyed, shaking her head in disbelief.

 

She opens her mouth, the words there ready on her tongue, because no, she hasn't forgotten them.

 

There's still a splinter left in her chest from the weight of those words, even after all these years.

 

But it's the smile on his face now, the unspoken promise, and just like that he plucks it out and it falls to the ground.

 

Retaliation takes the form of a kiss.

 

And she lets him have it.

 

His lips are soft, gentle against hers, hands cupping her cheeks. He chases away her words, leaving her mind perfectly blank and all she can do is feel.

 

“I thought we were friends?” she whispers breathlessly against him.

 

“We are,” he answers her.

 

And she thinks she finally understands.

 

 

\-----

 

 

He'd once thought that what they had could turn into something better than everything that came before.

 

He knows now that it has.

 

 

\-----

 

 

It's only later, much later when they're curled up beside each other, blissful and content that he says it.

 

“You asked me if it scared me?”

 

She lifts her head from where it rests on his shoulder to look up at him, but he's not looking at her. Eyes firmly on the ceiling, maybe it's the small crack in the far corner, or the little spider spinning it's web, that hold his attention, or maybe it's none of those things and it's the fingers that run up and down her bare arm.

 

“I lied.”

 

She shuffles up the bed, bends her elbow, jamming it into the pillow and rests her head in her propped up hand, “I know.”

 

He turns his head slightly, hair adorably messed up and sticking up at odd angles and there isn't even a shred of surprise on his face, “Figures.”

 

She picks up his hand, watches her thumb run over the back of it.

 

“Caroline?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“I love you.”

 

She kisses his knuckles and smiles into his skin.

 

 

\-----

 

 

“How long?”

 

She frowns, “How long, what?”

 

“How long ago did you figure it?”

 

She grins at him, “Figure _you_ out, you mean?”

 

He shakes his head, “Was I really that obvious?”

 

“It was cute.”

 

He laughs.

 

 

\-----

 

 

She tells him she loves him, and he doesn't even blink.

 

It's something that weighs on her for weeks. How easily he told her how he feels and how she hadn't really said a word back. How he hadn't even expected a response to the easy way the words fell from his mouth, so earnest and heartfelt, and freeing.

 

So when she finally tells him, after worrying about it for days, after spending ages brainstorming elaborate ideas on how to say three little words, it's only herself she takes by surprise when it just falls out of her mouth like that.

 

He's in the middle of cooking her dinner when it happens.

 

There isn't even a stutter in his motions as he stirs the sauce. He simply looks up with a smile on his face and asks, “Feel better now?”

 

“Yes,” she blurts out.

 

“Good.”

 

He kisses her on the cheek, and offers her the spoon, “Here taste this.”

 

She's too stunned to do anything else.

 

“What do you think?” he asks.

 

She looks up at him, and there's a glint in his eyes, and she realises then that he's laughing at her.

 

She shoves him, “I think you're a dick.”

 

“But you love me.”

 

She sighs dramatically, matching grin on her face, “I do.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

She walks in on hushed tones and fervent arguing.

 

Damon notices her first, turns away from Elena and asks, “What do you think Bon-Bon? May or December?”

 

She furrows her brow, “What are you talking about?”

 

“We're starting a pool on the wedding.”

 

“What?”

 

“Oh you know it's going to happen, sooner rather than later, I thought I'd get in early.”

 

Elena rolls her eyes, “He thinks December, which I mean, come on, Caroline would never-”

 

“June,” she interrupts, says it with such conviction that Damon stares back with nothing but suspicion narrowing his eyes.

 

“Know something we don't?”

 

“Nope,” she lies with an enigmatic smile, “Just put me down for June.”

 

 

 

  **End.**

 

 

 


End file.
